


Lines

by Cherry



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherry/pseuds/Cherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reno and Tseng on a peace mission in Wutai. Neither of them expected the change in location to make a difference...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of putting my old FF.net stories here, where they're less likely to be deleted! This one was first published under the name Morello.

They have both collaborated in the pretence that this tension doesn't exist for so long that neither of them ever expected circumstances or location to destabilise their hard-won equilibrium.

And yet, here they are, poised either side of a dividing line that each of them swore to himself he would never cross.

After the meeting – diplomacy, talk, words double-edged as the katana Tseng still remembers in nightmares although he has banished it from his waking mind with mantras of the past is ashes…

After the meal, and the show-drinking – sake never Reno's favourite - and neither of them even close to actually drunk…

After the conclusion of the ostensible business, and the business that masquerades as pleasure –

this:

The quiet, the grass-green odour of tatami mats, the slippery cool of the quilted silk covers, and between their futons only dim empty space and a shoji screen – translucent paper – dividing one room into two.

They stare into the darkness, and each one knows that the other is not sleeping. They move as silently as Turks can, and even with their excellent night vision neither is sure if the darker shadow on the other side of the screen is a figure, or only a trick of the night.

Now they stand still in the darkness, either side of a screen that is light as the touch of Reno's fingers against thin paper, and the sound of that contact, softer than a whisper or a sigh.

Now they wait either side of a screen that is years thick, and heavy with the memories of unspoken words that were louder than what was said – the avoidance of touch that was more tangible than physical contact.

Tseng feels his pulse in the tips of his fingers where they press against the screen. His entire body is this beat – so violent that he thinks he will fracture if this does not end.

Reno's fingers press against the screen, and he feels the tension in each tendon. He holds his breath and thinks he will break if this continues. But beneath his fingers, there is warmth, and a pulse that is not his own.

There is pressure, and answering pressure, and the screen is moving, sliding silently on its waxed runners.

They see little more than moving shadows, but their bodies know each other - the heat – the scent – the breathing that is unsteady, caught and released, and movement towards until there is touch; hands, and mouths, and soft, heavy hair.

Nothing between them now – no screens – no carefully maintained distance or the avoidance that was a constant meeting. They have always been as aware of each other as two repelling magnets – the tension of their passionate denial an irresistible force. They are equally helpless in their attraction, now that the night has brought them this unexpected polarity shift.

They still have no words – but they are no longer avoiding words. They have all the vocabulary of several languages available to them now, and the only three syllables they need are those that constitute their names. Even those, caught on shattered breaths, are broken by desire.

They have no need of sight – they have spent years on surreptitious surveillance. Tseng knows the exact shade of Reno's hair – crimson as the leaves of the maple tree reflected in the pond of Lord Kisaragi's ornamental garden. And Reno knows the depth of the colour that is Tseng's hair – he has watched night falling around him from the cockpit of his helicopter - the black that contains the lingering memory of blue.

Touch is what they have lacked, and what they have yearned for. Touch is what they have, now, skin against skin, warm and yielding beneath hands, against lips. Touch, and taste, and longed-for kisses, and the weight of each other – the gravity – the physical presence they have sensed all this time, wary orbits decayed as they are drawn inexorably together.

Consummation collides them – fragments them – rebuilds them, subtly changed.

At breakfast, they greet each other with the usual levels of formality – Tseng professionally polite, Reno verging on the too familiar. Their mission is on-going: the deals struck last night require completion – press conferences and public signatures – Rufus Shinra, Reeve Tuesti and Godo Kisaragi bringing the world into a new accord. Rufus will be here by noon – Tseng and Reno will have everything ready, just as they always do.

But a line crossed once is not the same as a line never crossed, however firmly redrawn.

Tseng pours coffee, and Reno asks, "Shouldn't it be tea – here in Wutai?"

Tseng shakes his head. "I prefer coffee."

"Me too."

Tseng passes Reno a cup of coffee. Their fingers meet, and their eyes – and they are not as quick as they would have been yesterday to withdraw their hands, or to look away.


End file.
